


feather-tipped

by fatiguedfern



Series: hideaway [3]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Fluff, M/M, No Spoilers, Non-Sexual Intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 10:13:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12746253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatiguedfern/pseuds/fatiguedfern
Summary: Ouma starts (and ends) the day with trails of fluttering kisses.





	feather-tipped

A shiver rakes down his spine as wisps of cool morning breeze trickle through the slight crack left between the pane and glass. 

Ouma stares into the wide spanning screen of shadow coating the ceiling. Murky sunlight peels across the blanketed shade, cutting a line of white plaster against the ashen gray. His toes tap lightly against the coarsely skinned lump tangled just below his own feet. His nails brush against Momota’s foot light enough for any scraping to be lost beneath the thickly veiled slumber that envelops Momota. 

Ouma counts the dull thuds resounding against the chest his ear’s loosely pressed against. 

_one_  
Saihara’s heart stutters a fluttering drumbeat. Ouma feels the thin shell of his ear throb at the pulse.

 _two_  
The second beat is a steadier rattle. A thudding, reluctant acceptance that the organ was pulsating through bouts of waning will all the same.

 _three_  
The third pulse that vibrates across Saihara’s chest thrums so achingly, brilliantly rife with life and a begrudging, momentary peace with it all that Ouma lets his head slip from its position pressed just above Saihara’s heart. Ouma wonders if it has anything to do with the smothering heat pooling at his head’s previous position as he shifts to face the doorway.

The door stands ajar. Faded yellow light is barely seen rippling from the gaping bathroom door, fair morning sunlight driving the synthetic lighting to a low smoulder. The light stings his eyes all the same.

A wall of curled fresh away, Ouma still hears Momota’s rasped breathing. The hand slipping beneath Saihara’s shoulder and fisting around his own twitches. Ouma counts the distinct whistles of huffed breath that sing too loudly for him to ignore.

 **one**  
Momota breathes in, and it’s a steady stream of sound. Ouma waits for it to inevitably hitch.

 **two**  
Momota’s breath crackles an uneasy static that sings with faux strength. Ouma picks apart the sound with scrutiny mirrored in his own breathing. 

**three**  
Momota’s inhalation stutters, and Ouma shifts onto his back once more. His eyes fixate back onto the ceiling, the crack of light having broadened. He clasps the half of his shared pillow over his ears, and waits for the sure, persistent screech of their alarm.

 

The alarm howls a roar that deafens any light chirping sung by flitting birds hovering just outside the window. Ouma stretches out his limbs and swallows an exaggerated yawn. 

Saihara stirs beside him, groggily reaching over Momota to snuff the howling siren. “Good morning, Ouma-kun,” he croaks, voice still raw. 

“Morning, Saihara-chan,” Ouma whispers back. He keeps his voice low and at a gentle a rasp as possible, as to not strain Saihara’s sleep-muddled hearing. 

“Mmm,” Saihara murmurs into their pillow, the vibration humming against Ouma’s cheek. He tilts his head, glancing into the tangle of hair plastered across the crinkled linen. 

He reaches out a tentative hand, fingers half curling away from scraping too close to the heat of another body reflexively. Ouma’s hand combs through clumped strands, fingers shimmering with a thin sheen of sweat and grease not slicking his own scalp. His crooked forefinger hooks on a particularly matted knot. He pulls at the ensnared finger, Saihara letting out a small yelp as Ouma tugs. 

Ouma unfurls his fingers, dropping them from their position combed into Saihara’s hair. A light creak of cautious objection croaks from his throat at the loss of Ouma’s contact. “You didn’t have to let go,” Saihara murmurs.

Ouma lets the silence drag into a thinly pressed line of background noise, still air left to answer Saihara.

There’s a rustling at the sheet molded beneath him, a tug plucking at his nightshirt. Saihara’s breath cascades a lukewarm stream of soured breath against his neck. Ouma tilts his head in roughly the direction of Saihara’s own. A silent question glints in his eyes.

The same uneasy chill seeps into his bones as any other day while wanting fingers - seen and unseen alike - reach for him. But there’s still a bilow of familiar morning breath fluttering against his nape, and he’s reminded that if there’s anything, anyone, to let slip through finely webbed cracks, it was Saihara and his steady torrent of trust forged in lengths of disbelieving time. Ouma’s neck creaks. A nod of jittery assent is given. 

The lips that press against the hollow dipping at his collarbone are soft and fleeting, cracked with nightly dehydration, yet moistened with a thin layer of spittle. The skin is left tingling and damp with the ghosting form of Saihara’s mouth.

Saihara lowers himself, all fumbling legs and awkwardly placed hands, before his silhouette reaches a destination hovering just above Ouma’s pallid stomach. Momota’s oversized shirt rides up just enough to expose skin. 

Saihara stares up again, eyes searching for consent that neither were sure how to sift into words. “Hey, Saihara-chan,” Ouma says, face splitting into a small, strained smile. Saihara smiles back, a light spark of rare mischief flashing across his features. Saihara presses his mouth down against his sunken stomach, and blows. 

A light peel of laughter escapes him at the sudden vibration. Loose skin hums with Saihara’s exaggerated exhales. He looks up and this time, no matter how thoroughly Ouma picks it apart, Saihara’s smile shines genuinely. 

A low groan cuts through Ouma’s laughter and Momota reaches out, fingers searching for warmth he’d grown accustomed to. The hand searches, blind and uncoordinated, for the nearest proof of life to clutch onto, other than the cooling dip at the centre of the bed. 

Coarse fingers fist in Ouma’s shirt, urging him closer, and therefore Saihara - half sprawled on top of him - as well. Ouma might think to complain about the stretched cloth, if it weren’t for the fact that the material hung loosely all the same.

“G’mornin’,” Momota props himself up on his elbow, blinking at them through half-lidded eyes. 

“Good morning, Momota-chan! It’s nice to see you awake so early.” Ouma’s voice echoes a few notes more shrill for it to be coincidence.

Momota winces at the raised volume, before rubbing at his neck. “I don’t sleep that late.” 

“You kind of do,” Saihara chimes in. “Or at least far later than what you should.” 

Momota grumbles and flops back down onto the mattress, burying his head just beneath Ouma’s shoulder. Ouma reaches out a wavering palm once more and pats Momota’s flattened hair, the irony of it all not lost on him. 

Ouma rolls over to face Saihara. “Momota-chan’s especially lazy today, isn’t he?” Saihara snorts into his stomach.

“Fuck you. Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here,” Momota snaps with no real malice as he nuzzles into Ouma’s shoulder with a faint click as he stretches his neck. Sometimes Ouma wonders if that was in fact Momota’s biggest fear; lying forgotten and left to rust. Despite his musings he still stiffens at the close proximity between their bodies. Old habits die hard, and muscle memory even harder. 

Momota reacts first, his grip on Ouma’s waist loosening and his body drifting backwards. Saihara moves second, leaning further into him and peppering a path of dandelion kisses against his stomach, eyelashes brushing trails of moth-winged kisses of their own. The path laces between every overly pronounced ridge of his ribcage and flutters with such a buzzing that he thinks that every butterfly swarming in his chest that he’d long since learnt to deaden had awoken and thrummed to the crest of his skin. 

Momota fumbles. “I-shit. Is this okay?” he asks as his face lingers just above Ouma’s back. 

Ouma feels the wiry hair of Momota’s dumb gaotee tickle his back. “Y-yeah. I already share a bed with you, don’t I? It’s not like I can stand a larger chance of catching your stupidness.” It’s a ridiculously weak insult, even, especially, to his own ears. Momota shakes his head, hair strands sweeping against his skin and presses a first kiss to his spine despite it all.

Momota trails a constellation of sloppily placed kisses up his spine, each curved joint dusted against in passing. Momota reaches his nape, breathing a last kiss onto the sloping flesh. 

He isn’t all too sure what to make of the contact. The tingling spaces left as traces of the touch scream and whisper apologies and promises alike. And more than anything they whistle a sure, certain _we’re here_. 

Ouma sinks further into their shared embrace, not even bothered by the sudden hush in the other two’s breathing. 

Ouma cautiously brushes his lips against each of Saihara and Momota’s exposed knuckles and counts his forgiven deceits, before he’s lulled into a dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> this was. incredibly self-indulgent aha.  
> also i’ve recently started a saioumota server... feel free to hop in if you’re interested! https://discord.gg/RNTs4nP


End file.
